


Bitty: Year 4

by JustLookFrightenedAndScuttle



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Bitty is a little overwhelmed, Bitty is tired of being a ray of sunshine, Bitty needs a little help from his friends, M/M, and his boyfriend, and his mama, takes place in the fall of Bitty's senior year
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-17
Updated: 2018-03-17
Packaged: 2019-04-01 08:47:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13994694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JustLookFrightenedAndScuttle/pseuds/JustLookFrightenedAndScuttle
Summary: Bitty has had just about enough, what with school and hockey and taking care of everyone. Fortunately, his team -- and his mama and boyfriend -- want to take care of him, too.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This started as a one-shot, just thinking about what Bitty's senior year would be like.  
> Many thanks to [RabbitRunnah](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RabbitRunnah/pseuds/RabbitRunnah) for the beta help!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edited to add a reference to _[The Gay Gookbook](https://hornet.com/stories/the-gay-cookbook-two/)_ , brought to my attention by [ahausonfire](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisiswherethefishlives/pseuds/ahausonfire).

Bitty rooted in the fridge and came out with a bunch of bruised spinach, halfway to slimy. So no chicken Florentine for lunch. Maybe he could do something with the mangoes he'd been saving for salsa.

Nope, those weren't there anymore.

Fuck it. What did it take to get hockey players to respect the food in the fridge? Or at least not put beer cans on top of the spinach in the crisper drawer?

Bitty contemplated making an unplanned run to the store while the chicken pieces were roasting. He didn't trust the Murder Stop ‘n’ Shop to have fresh spinach -- well, they would have baby spinach in a bag, but it would probably already be past its sell-by date -- but there might be mangoes. They’d definitely have oranges or apples; maybe he could come up with a Plan C?

He should forget it. Bitty sighed and put the chicken back in the refrigerator. At least he hadn't spent any time cutting it up yet. He’d been looking forward to the chicken-spinach dish he'd perfected for a vlog post his freshman year. He didn't have time to go to the store and prep the ingredients and cook when he got back, not unless he wanted to lose the whole afternoon. And after his meeting with Professor Atley, that would not be a good thing. 

Besides, he was hungry now.

Bagel Bites it was, then. And if anyone else wandered in looking for lunch, they could figure it out for themselves.

When the Bagel Bites were out of the oven (Bitty could not, even in dire circumstances, microwave them. He'd eat them frozen first.), Bitty sat at the table with his laptop open. He knew there was a trip to the library in his future, but he'd try to start here. 

It wasn't that Professor Atley hadn’t been enthusiastic about him doing his thesis on the development of community cookbooks. No, the problem was that she had been almost too enthusiastic, throwing out different avenues for him to pursue and at least five different ways he could narrow his research.

Bitty had been hoping to get away with making a few dishes each from MooMaw’s 1952 Madison Ladies Guild Cookbook and Mama’s 1990 Walton County Parents’ Club Recipes and presenting them to the thesis committee, along with a brief paper maybe about the different packaged ingredients that had come into -- and fallen out of -- favor.

But Professor Atley had started going on about the history of local recipe collections, going back to the 19th century and the role they played in spreading social movements. The social media of their time, she said, although Bitty had a hard time seeing how publishing a recipe called “Suffrage Salad Dressing” compared to a Twitter campaign.

Then there was the way migration of different ethnic groups influenced the recipes, how the cookbooks changed during war time, and how they reflected changes in cooking technology and nutrition science.

Bitty buried his head in his hands. He didn’t even know where to start. 

He didn’t move when he heard the back door open and close.

“Hey, Bitty, is there lunch?” Chowder said.

Bitty looked at Chowder, then, pointedly, at the empty baking sheet.

“No,” he said.

Chowder stiffened for a moment, and then softened.

“Hey, Bitty, you okay? You seem a little stressed,” Chowder said.

Chowder’s concern was real, Bitty knew, and none of his problems were Chowder’s fault. Probably. Chowder knew better than to ruin Bitty’s spinach, didn’t he? But he might have taken the mangoes for a smoothie.

“I’m fine,” Bitty said. “There’s nothing wrong that couldn’t be solved by people showing a little respect for the food in the fridge. There would have been lunch if the spinach was in any way edible, or if anyone had left me a mango or two. But no, both my Plan A and my Plan B got blown away. So. Bagel Bites. And I ate the last of them. And now I’m going to the library.”

Two hours later, Bitty left the library with a headache and a sense of accomplishment. He had a better idea of where he was going with his thesis: He wanted to write about the ways community cookbooks expressed and reinforced the values of the groups that produced them.

He’d found out how to get access to four older cookbooks, and was looking for a LGBT group cookbook to include. He’d also started on a list of articles and essays that might be helpful.

If he'd spent half an hour going down the rabbit hole of reading about 1965's _The Gay Cookbook_ before deciding it didn't fit his theme, well, it could come in handy for his vlog. If he could get his hands on a copy. Or even copies of the recipes.

WIth that out of the way, Bitty thought he could make time to go to the store. Tomorrow was a team dinner night. With Jack out of town until Saturday -- when SMH would be gone on their own two-day roadie -- Bitty would be home tonight and tomorrow morning. He could put together a couple of crockpot pot roasts and put them on in the morning. The team had late afternoon practice tomorrow, but if Bitty added the carrots and potatoes before practice, all he would have to do when he got home would be to shred the beef, put some rolls in the oven and get the boys to assemble a salad.

Without Jack around to drive to the store, Bitty would have to be satisfied with what he could get at the Murder Stop ’n’ Shop. They’d have rump roast, carrots, celery, even a bottle of not-terrible red wine.

Bitty dumped his laptop and book bag on his bed, wrapped his scarf around his neck and set off. 

What he hadn’t considered was that walking three-quarters of a mile home with three heavy bags of groceries was nowhere near as easy as walking to the the store. By the time he pushed through the back door, the handles of his bags had cut off the circulation in his fingers and it felt like his shoulders and elbows had been stretched too far.

He left the bags on the table while he went upstairs to stow his coat and scarf and collect his laptop so he could put music on. When he returned to the kitchen, he found Dex poking through the bags.

“Pot roast tomorrow?” he asked. “Sweet.”

“Yes, and I’m taking $25 from the sin bin to cover the cost of some of the groceries,” Bitty said.

“Are you sure?” Dex said.

“Yes, I’m sure,” Bitty snapped. “I can’t cover the cost of Haus dinners from my scholarship, and my boyfriend might be in the NHL, but it’s not his job to pay for our team dinners.”

“No, I meant this had to cost like twice that,” Dex said. “You sure you won’t take more? Since we got the dryer last spring, we’re actually doing pretty well in the sin bin.”

They got the dryer because once the team knew about Bitty and Jack, Jack would come visit on a weekend and casually drop $100 in and tell the team he didn’t want to hear any more about fines. He would often drop another $100 on the way out if the team managed not to chirp too much while he was there.

Of course, that didn’t help Bitty once Jack was gone.

That was neither here nor there. Bitty owed Dex an apology

“Sorry, sweetheart,” he said. “It’s just been a rough day. You want to prep the vegetables while I brown the meat? Then all that will be left will be to put it on. And maybe drink the rest of this wine.”

“Wine drunk on a Wednesday, Bits?” Dex sounded like he was chirping, but his brow was furrowed. “You don’t usually -- well, you’re not always here on Wednesdays, I guess.”

Maybe that was why Bitty felt so off. If Jack was in town, Bitty took advantage of his last class on Wednesday ending before noon and his first class on Thursday starting at 10 a.m. to make a quick trip to Providence. With both their seasons in full swing, it was often easier for Bitty and Jack to see each other mid-week than to try spend a weekend together. But with Jack gone and Bitty’s school work piling up, that hadn’t worked out this time.

Bitty heated oil in the skillet and cut the roast into large chunks to dredge in flour while Dex peeled carrots and trimmed celery. Bitty was just turning the meat the first time and Dex was moving on to the onions when Nursey came down from upstairs.

That would explain while Dex was so eager to stay in the kitchen.

“Something smells delicious, Bits,” Nursey said. “Will there be food?”

“There will be food tomorrow,” Bitty said. “Tonight, I suggest you go to the D-hall unless you plan to cook for yourself.”

“Nah, man, not my thing,” Nurse said. “But I’m definitely in for tomorrow. You’re the best, Cap.”

And just because Bitty could not resist poking at a sore spot, he said, “Dex is helping, too.”

“Thank you, Dex,” Nursey sing-songed, like a preschooler told to mind his manners.

Dex ignored him.

“I said, ‘Thank you, Dex,’” Nursey said. “Or were you expecting more?”

“Shut up, Nurse,” Dex said. “I like cooking, and I like hanging with Bitty.”

“Everyone likes hanging with Bitty, man,” Nursey said. “But it looks like I’d better go. D-hall it is.”

The way Dex’s eyes followed Nursey was not lost on Bitty.

“I’m sorry, hon,” Bitty said. “I didn’t mean to stir up trouble. I thought you two were getting along better.”

“We were. We are,” Dex said. “But he asked me again why I was so upset about sharing the room, and I couldn’t really explain it, so he decided that it was just that I felt entitled. It wasn’t that, not really. It would have been easier with someone else, even someone I didn’t know. It’s just that he gets under my skin, you know? And I know it’s not his fault, and I can’t really say that to him, but he does, and I didn’t want to be fighting all the time, but I really needed the room.”

Dex kept slicing the onions into perfectly even half-circles while he spoke.

“Anyway, he said it was just my loss that I spent the year sucking up to someone who didn’t have dibs to give away last year. Like I didn’t spend half my free time keeping this whole Haus from falling apart.”

“And helping me cook for everyone,” Bitty said. “I’m sorry, Dex. Maybe I should have encouraged you to spend more time with the seniors.”

“I mean, I knew Nurse and Lardo spent time together,” Dex said. “But I thought one of the three seniors … maybe Nursey was right and I was feeling entitled. But I’m doing my best not to provoke him. It just seems like he likes to get me riled up.”

“You want me to talk to him?” Bitty said. 

“God, no,” Dex said. “Then he’d know how much he was getting to me, and blame me for crying to you.”

“All right,” Bitty said. “But if this gets worse, I’m going to have a sit-down with both of you. I know my mama always told me to ignore the people picking on me, but that doesn’t make it not hurt, does it?”

“It’s not really that he’s picking on me,” Dex said. “I just wish I knew how to talk to him.”

Dex looked so sad, and Bitty felt responsible, but he didn’t have any solutions to offer. Except baked goods.

“I got what I need for an apple pie,” he said. “Let me make you a sandwich while I put it together. It should be ready to eat in a couple of hours. We can have it during Jack’s game.”

“Thanks, Bitty,” Dex said. “I’m gonna go upstairs and study since he’s out.”

Maybe, Bitty thought, he could ask Jack for advice on what he could do about his disharmonious D-men tonight, captain to captain. But feelings had never been Jack’s strong suit, Bitty knew. He’d left the frogs to Bitty when Bitty was barely more than a frog himself, and didn’t even recognize his own feelings until his father gave him a push in the right direction.

He had gotten better, though, Bitty thought. That boy.

But Jack had enough to be getting on with. The game against the Aeros was brutal, with Houston drawing the Falconers out of their finesse game and getting them to try to trade hit for hit. That wasn’t what the Falconers were built for, and it showed.

When Jack took a slash near the end of the first, and turned around and got called for hooking as he tried to retaliate, everyone watching in the Haus booed the refs and the Aeros.

Ollie jumped off the couch, as though the officials could see him despite being nearly 2,000 miles away. He extended his arm to make his point at the same moment Wicks lifted his hand -- the one with the beer in it -- and the cup went flying, landing with most of its contents soaking the pie Bitty had made.

Bitty just stared at it.

Ollie and Wicks tried to play it off. It was a frat house; these things happened. “Bits, dude, I’m sorry,” Ollie said. “I didn’t mean to ruin your pie.”

“You can always make another one, can’t you?” Wicks said, a note of pleading in his voice. Bitty could hear how much he wanted everything to be okay.

“Of course he’ll make another one,” Ollie reassured him. “That’s what Bitty does: takes care of people and makes pie appear out of nowhere.”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake, I’m your captain, not your mama,” Bitty said. “You two get some paper towels and clean the mess up. I’m going to bed.”

He was halfway up the stairs when Ford came in through the front.

“Where’s he going?” she asked the group in the living room “The second period’s just about to start.”

Bitty didn’t wait to hear the answer. He was sorry, for a moment, that there was no pie or anything for Ford when the guys had invited her over to watch the game. But it wasn’t his job to make sure there were snacks, and then extra snacks if the snacks Bitty made got ruined by the carelessness of people who didn’t seem to appreciate how much work went into making a pie.

Anyway, they knew where the store was. If they wanted something else, they could get it.

Bitty flopped onto his bed and pulled his laptop over, opening the stream of the Falcs game. There was an email from Murray, too. The Globe and ESPN had called again. Bitty didn’t want to think about doing more interviews about being out and captain of an NCAA hockey team, mostly because he knew that they would turn into interviews about being the boyfriend of the first out NHL player. He’d done one sit-down with Outsports before the season started, and that had been fine, even if everyone already knew his coming out story. At least the part that was live on TV.

But all anyone else seemed to want to know was what it was like being Jack Zimmermann’s boyfriend.

Bitty decided to ignore the email for now. He left the computer open, the hockey game streaming in the background, and tried to worked his way through another couple of chapters of “My Antonia.” It might very well be a masterpiece -- Bitty had no reason to doubt Professor Brusk on that -- but the story of a lawyer’s lost love for a Bohemian pioneer girl just wasn’t doing it for him. The only conclusion Bitty had come to about the book was that he was glad he was born at the end of the 20th century rather than the end of the 19th.

The Aeros continued to beat up on the Falconers, most of whom seemed to have given up on returning the favor. Well, all of them except Tater. Bitty watched him flatten Marcus, one of the Aeros forwards, and then skate away smiling, despite being on the wrong end of a 4-2 score. The camera caught Jack grimacing on the bench; was he hurt or just upset about the game? 

Bitty’s phone buzzed on the pillow. Lardo’s contact picture -- a photo of a self-portrait she did -- popped up. Bitty ignored it. He was supposed to be studying. 

Besides, he was in a rotten mood. He didn’t need to share that with Lardo. She’d only try to make him feel better, and he just couldn’t handle that right now. And if he snapped at Lardo, he’d have one more person to apologize to.

He didn’t answer when Ford tapped on his door and called to him, either. He wasn’t sure how she’d react to him being in a pet, as his mother would say, but either trying to boss him out of it or gentle it away would be bad right now. If she scolded him, well, Bitty knew he was liable to yell right back. And if she tried to tell him that everything would be okay, that the team did appreciate his efforts, that Murray and Hall thought he was doing fine even if he wasn’t in the mold of Jack or Ransom and Holster, that he could finish his projects and understand his assignments … He really needed to make a pie. Or a tart. He wasn’t particular. But after the way he’d talked to everybody, he really couldn’t.

Bitty plugged his way through 10 more pages of Cather before the game ended. The Falconers lost 6-4, but probably were glad no one had a season-ending injury to go with it. They were heading for Vegas next, with a night flight after the game. That meant Jack would call in about 40 minutes -- time to shower and change, do press if necessary, but before the team boarded the bus for the airport. It also meant he’d have no more than 10 minutes, maybe less, to talk to Bitty.

Which tonight was for the best. He didn’t think he could keep up his facade much longer than that.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's a new day, but not much better.

Bitty groaned when he woke up. It wasn’t pitch dark, but the light from the window was still gray. It was too early -- far too early on a day when there was no early practice and he had no classes until 10 a.m.

Maybe Jack and his ridiculous sleeping patterns were rubbing off on him. After all, most Thursdays so far this fall, he’d awakened in Jack’s bed, usually with Jack’s unshaven face prickling the side of his neck, Jack’s arm around his waist, Jack’s groin pressed against Bitty’s bottom.

And that was before Jack properly woke up.

Once they were both conscious, well, it usually only got better. Then, sometime before 7, they would rinse off in the shower and head out for a quick run, only three miles or so, before coming back to have breakfast and clean up more thoroughly. Jack usually had time to drive Bitty all the way back to Samwell. On the days he couldn’t, he insisted on ordering a ride-share for Bitty, which meant he could leave at 9 a.m. and have no trouble making it to his 10 o’clock class.

But this week, Jack was gone. He’d be gone the next Wednesday night, too, and three of the next four, and somehow it seemed like the NHL arranged its schedule just to make Bitty miserable.

It didn’t help that last week’s visit had not precisely followed the script. Well, Bitty had not precisely followed the script.

Jack had a home game that night, so Bitty took the shuttle into Boston, the train to Providence, and a ride-share to Jack’s condo. Jack had already been at the rink for an hour, so Bitty made himself a nutritious, high-protein supper, with a portion left for Jack when he came home. Then he settled down to study while he watched the game, a Falconers win against the Isles.

He’d been struggling to stay awake by the end, and when Jack got home, Bitty barely spoke as Jack ate the chicken and brown rice casserole that had been keeping warm in the oven.

The sex was … good. But it was also kind of efficient, with Jack sucking Bitty off then jerking himself until he spilled onto Bitty’s chest. After Jack wiped him off, Bitty tried to apologize for not being a more active participant. Jack had merely tucked the blanket more tightly around Bitty, kissed his hair and said, “Shh, bud. You’re exhausted. I get to take care of you sometimes too, you know?”

Bitty had resolved to return the favor -- at the very least -- in the morning, but when Jack pulled him close, Bitty had rolled away and pleaded with Jack to let him sleep in.

Jack hadn’t seemed upset when he came back from his run and found Bitty making breakfast, but Bitty felt terrible. He’d ruined what they both knew was going to be their last time together for at least the next two weeks.

Jack hadn’t pushed Bitty to talk on the way back to Samwell, even if he kept throwing concerned glances in his direction. Once they got off the highway and were approaching campus, Bitty tried to apologize again, but got lost in his words and ended up in a mess of self-justification.

It had come out something like, “I’m sorry I wanted to sleep this morning, especially after last night, but I was really tired. It’s a lot to be playing hockey and be captain and carry a full class load and cook and clean up and go back and forth, and I like sex, but I needed to sleep,” only less coherent.

Jack had looked confused at first, and then hurt, and then like he was trying not to look hurt, and Bitty felt worse.

“Bud,” Jack said. “You don’t have to want sex all the time. Are you doing okay? Really? It seems like you have a whole lot on your plate.”

“I’m fine, Jack,” Bitty said, because he was fine. He was healthy, he was leading a team that started the season 5-2, he was even passing all his classes, and he had gorgeous, loving, awkward dork of a boyfriend. He wasn’t hiding who he was from anyone, and his parents were still speaking to him, and he had no right to complain. Everything in his life was wonderful, and he’d asked for every bit of it.

“If you say so,” Jack said, but he hadn’t looked convinced. When he pulled over at the campus entrance nearest the history building, he’d given Bitty a brief goodbye kiss and said, “I’ll talk to you every day while I’m gone.”

Jack had kept that promise, calling or Skyping every evening the whole week. Although Bitty was kind of wishing he could forget last night’s conversation.

Jack had called earlier than Bitty expected -- maybe a half-hour after the game ended instead of the usual 40 minutes.

Bitty had seen Jack’s picture when the phone rang (and it was a treat to actually use Jack’s picture for his contact) and answered with, “Hey, Jack. That was a rough game. Are you okay?”

And Jack had responded with, “I think I should be asking you that.”

Because Ford (bless her heart) had heard all about Bitty’s snit from the boys, and she called Lardo for advice. When he hadn’t answered the phone for Lardo, she’d called Ford back, which led to Ford’s attempt to get him to open up. When that hadn’t worked, Lardo (bless her heart -- twice) had called and left a voicemail for Jack, which he listened to as soon as he got his clothes on, because Lardo only called if she had something to say. Then Jack called him.

“It’s nothing, Jack,” Bitty said. “I was just in a bad mood because it felt like nothing was going right all day, so I snapped when Ollie and Wicks seemed to think I could make a new pie magically appear in the next five minutes.”

“Lardo said the frogs were also worried about you,” Jack said. “And you were exhausted last week.”

“I said I was sorry about --”

“You don’t need to apologize,” Jack interrupted with a gentle voice. “I’m not angry with you, and I wasn’t then. I’m just worried because it kind of feels like you’re trying to carry the weight of the world on your shoulders.”

“I’m fine,” Bitty insisted. “I know there’s a lot going on right now -- believe me, I know, you don’t have to tell me -- but it’s all good. I’m captain of a highly-ranked NCAA Division I hockey team, I’m on track to graduate from a prestigious university, I finally managed to tell my parents that I’m gay, and I have the most wonderful boyfriend in the world.”

“And you have reporters calling and pestering you about your personal life, and you don’t know what you want to do when you graduate, and you seem to think you can get the team to live up to your standards if you provide an endless stream of baked goods,” Jack said.

“It’s better than endless rounds of suicides,” Bitty said.

“Maybe,” Jack allowed. “Maybe neither one works because we’re both hardasses with impossibly high standards. At least that’s what Shitty would say.”

Bitty snorted.

“No he wouldn’t,” Bitty said. “Not if he wanted to keep the baked goods coming.”

“Maybe,” Jack said. “I’m not sure Shitty would sell out for pie, though. He places a lot of value on the truth.”

“But he really likes my pie.”

“This isn’t really about pie, Bits,” Jack said. “Or maybe it is. Remember when you were a sophomore and you made 17 pies in September?”

“Not really, but I remember you chirping me about it,” Bitty said.

“Whatever,” Jack said. “At the time, I thought it was an odd choice of a coping mechanism. Not the healthiest in the world, but certainly not the worst, and you were having a rough time with the checking and all.”

Bitty wasn’t entirely sure where Jack was going with this. But he had his suspicions, and he was pretty dang sure he didn’t like it.

“Okay,” he said.

“So how many pies did you make in September this year?” Jack asked. “More than 17? Because with your duties as captain, and getting your thesis going, and coming to see me, you have even less time. Maybe you need a more effective way to deal with the stress.”

“I don’t think you should count coming to see you as a time-consuming activity,” Bitty said. “I’m perfectly capable of baking in your condo.”

Bitty was aware he sounded mulish.

“Maybe it’s my condo, but you know it’s your kitchen, bud,” Jack said. “And that’s really not the point.”

“Supposing you get to the point, then?”

“Have you considered getting some counseling?” Jack asked. “You do have a lot to manage, and talking to a therapist can help you figure out how to prioritize and get things done, or figure out what you can let go.”

Bitty didn’t answer, so Jack went on.

“You seem like you’re getting overwhelmed and wearing yourself out,” Jack said. “It’s like you have all these expectations that you can do everything perfectly, but if you keep going --”

“I have all these expectations?” Bitty said. “I’m not the one demanding lunch and dinner and pie all in the same day, oh, and while I’m at it, make peace between the idiots in Lardo’s old room. Maybe I’ll solve all the conflicts in the Middle East too. I’m not the one looking at me to take the team deep in the playoffs for the third year in a row, and be the gay athlete poster boy at the same time. The Swallow is stalking me, Jack. They’re posting pics of my outfit every. single. day.”

His breathing was ragged by the end of his rant, and he concentrated on evening it out before Jack could hear the tears in his voice.

“Bitty -- Bits. I agree it’s too much pressure. That’s why I think you should talk to someone. The counseling center at Samwell is a good place to start, or I could ask my therapist for recommendations.”

“I don’t see how that will help,” Bitty said. “It won’t change what you -- what everyone expects of me. That will still all be there. I’ll just have one more thing to fit into my schedule, one more person judging me, and if there’s anything I don’t need, it’s that.”

Bitty groaned when he remembered the conversation. Jack hadn’t mentioned that he was in therapy except when he volunteered to get recommendations for Bitty. The fact remained that Jack was in therapy, had been for years, and accepted that he probably always would have a therapist even if he didn’t need weekly appointments.

And it was good for Jack, necessary even. Bitty knew that. Without seeing his therapist, Jack’s anxiety tended to spiral, the weight of the pressure convincing him that he was about to break, even though Jack was the strongest person Bitty knew.

Bitty hoped Jack didn’t think he looked down on him in any way for seeking the help he needed. It was just that Bitty didn’t have Jack-sized pressure bearing down on him. Bitty was just Bitty, and he knew how to suck it up and keep going. Even if he did have to lose himself to the rhythm of rolling out pastry to do it. 

The light in his room was getting brighter. His phone said it was 7:30, still early. He was almost certain the ice was open Thursday mornings. If making pies was such an unhealthy coping mechanism, he’d go to his other childhood love and make use of the figure skates that were stowed in his locker at Faber.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bitty reconnects with the ice, and with his team.

Bitty was able to cool his overheated thoughts by taking to the ice, first circling the rink forwards, then backwards, then working his way into steps and spins. After a while, he tried a series of jumps, revelling in the way his body responded when he asked it to.

He kept all the jumps at doubles or less, because he was skating alone, it had been a long time since he’d done any serious training, and he wasn’t crazy. But knowing he still had the agility, the muscle memory, and the sheer power to propel his body into the air backwards, spin around twice, and land on one razor-sharp blade -- he remembered why he loved this so much in the first place. It was just him out on the ice, pushing himself to new heights and make something beautiful at the same time. He felt untouchable.

It was an illusion, he knew. It didn’t matter what he did on the ice; he was far too easy a target once he got to school, and far too easily swayed by his father’s sighs and questions about how long he intended to do this. He hadn’t had anywhere near the strength it would have taken to pursue a career in figure skating. It turned out that he’d folded under the pressure. No one had even asked him to stop; they just made it clear that he should, and he did.

But still, he could glide, he could leap, he could almost fly.

So he did, until the Zamboni operator shagged him off the ice at 10:30.

10:30. His lit class met at 10. Fuck.

It was too late to head to class, and his legs were like jelly after spending two and a half hours on skates. Never mind that there was practice this afternoon. He went home and pulled out the ingredients for a pie.

He also put the pot roast on, and used the mangoes he’d picked up to make a chutney to go with the chicken he put in the oven when the pie came out. He could have it for lunch, and leave the rest for anyone who turned up.

He had a half-hour to spend on schoolwork while the chicken was roasting. That could make up for skipping class, right?

He was still buried in “My Antonia,” considering the fact that men taking advantage of young girls certainly seemed to be a problem in all times and cultures, when Ollie and Wicks came in, bearing groceries.

“Bitty!” Ollie said. “Just the man we were looking for. We wanted to apologize for ruining your pie last night.”

Wicks was unloading the bags. There were soft bread rolls, turkey, roast beef, two kinds of cheese, lettuce, tomatoes, Flamin’ Hot Cheetos, and Cool Ranch Doritos. There were even three-pound bags of apples and oranges.

“We figured we’d make it up to you by making lunch, but since neither of us cooks much --” Bitty mentally translated that to “We can make frozen pizza, and on a good day, instant mac ’n’ cheese “-- we got sandwich stuff. What would you like?”

“I already made mango chutney and have a chicken roasting,” Bitty said. “It’ll be ready in a few minutes. If you guys want, you could split that with me? And we can save the sandwiches for tomorrow?”

“Excellent,” Wicks said. “We apologize, and we get a hot, Bitty-made lunch.”

“Seems like we made out on the deal,” Ollie said.

“We made out!” Wicks crowed. “Get it?”

Bitty groaned. At least this was Samwell, so no one said “no homo.” Samwell, where jocks joked about being gay without feeling threatened by it. He supposed it was progress of a sort.

Ollie and Wicks turned out to be surprisingly good lunch companions, keeping up a running commentary on their classes, the team’s chances to bounce back from last weekend’s loss to Quinnipiac and who should win the new Survivor season.

The three of them demolished the roasted chicken. Bitty wrapped the carcass and put it back in the fridge, intending to start some stock after dinner tonight. When he turned around to grab the plates from the table, he found them already gone. Wicks was filling the sink and Ollie was connecting his phone to the speaker that lived in the kitchen.

“Y’all don’t have to --”

“You cooked, we should clean up,” Wicks said. “Besides, don’t you have a class before practice? You better go get your stuff together.”

When Bitty settled his book bag on his back and left the house five minutes later, he was feeling better about the team, and about his Hausmates, than he had in a while. Ollie and Wicks had been part of his hockey family since his frog year, but somehow, he’d ended up closer to players both ahead of and behind him in school. While those people -- the ones who made the Haus a home, whether they actually lived there or not -- became like his immediate family of choice, the brothers and sisters and children and sometimes even parents he chose for himself, the others were more like the cousins he had in Madison. Close, geographically and in their relationships, but not quite the same as the people he counted as home. Maybe this year, he would end up expanding that circle.

The happy calm lasted until practice, which was dreadful. The rift that had opened between Nursey and Dex was most definitely affecting their chemistry on the ice, and Chowder was so busy watching them that even the newest tadpoles were scoring on him almost at will. No one paid enough attention to their form when Bitty tried to teach them a new skating drill, and Bitty couldn’t get Whiskey or Tango to pass to each other in the scrimmage -- they both kept sending the puck back to Bitty, who spared a moment to wonder if this was what it was like when Jack started playing for Samwell. 

It was their last practice before two away games over the weekend, and Bitty knew the only reason Hall and Murray didn’t chew them out or make them skate suicides was that the coaches didn’t want to make things worse.

Bitty resolved to keep his temper in the locker room, and he almost succeeded. He only lost it a bit when Dex threw his practice jersey in his bag and said, “Well, that was disgusting.”

“Really?” Bitty said. “Care to share what we might do to clean it up? Because if we can’t all work together and play to the strengths of our teammates -- all of our teammates -- then we’re not gonna do very well, and I, for one, am working too hard to let that happen.”

Of course, as soon as the boys started to shuffle off to the showers, he realized that the team -- all of them -- would be heading to the Haus for dinner in an hour. He’d better do something to lighten the mood if he didn’t want the pot roast sitting heavily in everyone’s stomach.

He made sure to issue an invitation to each player before they left. They all already knew about team dinner, but it couldn’t hurt for each one to hear that he was very much wanted.

The mood in the Haus was lighter than it had been at the rink. Maybe it was the smell of good food and the availability of beer (in somewhat limited quantities -- no blow-outs on school nights during the season. Especially with back-to-back games coming up). 

But really, Bitty thought, it was just the team working together. Dex had rolls rising in the fridge and got them in the oven before helping Bitty shred the meat from the roasts, Ollie and Wicks made salad, Nursey set the table (which really meant setting out stacks of plates and bins of cutlery), Chowder ferried food around and brought up chairs and generally made himself useful. Bitty slid two pies in the oven as soon as the rolls came out, to go with the one he’d made earlier.

Everyone served themselves as they arrived, and at the end of the night, Ford declared that the new frog class was washing up, as she did every time they had team dinner. And Bitty rescued his favorite pie plate as he did every time, then stood by in the kitchen, replacing wet towels with dry ones, putting away the crockery, and making sure the floor was actually mopped.

By the time everything was done, Bitty was exhausted, but he still had work to do, not to mention going over the notes for the class he missed. He was lucky that he was part of a study group that kept notes in a joint Google doc; now he would just have to see if he could understand them.

Unfortunately, he had another email from Murray, who explained that he hadn’t wanted to say anything in front of the team, but the requests for interviews were multiplying. Murray recommended that he make some decisions about how many he would do, and who he wanted to talk to, and then give the others a firm “no.” 

“Maybe you could talk to Jack about it,” Murray wrote. “He might have some advice.”

But the last thing Bitty wanted to do was let Jack know how much things were getting to him. Again. Last year, Jack had driven through the rain at four in the morning because Bitty was worrying him so much. He couldn’t do that to Jack again. 

Maybe he could just hide under a rock. Not do any interviews at all. When he assumed the captaincy -- before he kissed Jack at center ice -- Hall and Murray said that was an option.

But after that, even though he hadn’t spoken publicly at the time, he’d been everywhere for a few weeks. People found his Twitter and shared his tweets on Tumblr and Facebook. His YouTube hits increased exponentially, and for a little while, he actually made money on the ads.

He knew there was fanfiction about him and Jack. He’d heard there was fanfic about him and Kent, which seemed weird, and about him and Bob, which was downright disturbing.

Even though the intensity of the attention had died down by the time he came back to Samwell, he could tell people knew who he was. 

After that, it seemed disingenuous to not talk to any media and ask people to respect his privacy. If he did, he’d have to delete his Twitter account and all his vlogs, but he wasn’t ready for that.

He emailed Murray back: “Give me a week to come up with a plan.” 

It was one more thing to think about.

There was still an hour before he was due to talk to Jack, but he wanted to talk to someone who loved him.

He picked up his phone and texted his mother.

_Mama, you have time to talk?_


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bitty talks with his mama and Jack.

“Dicky, how are you?” Suzanne asked as soon as she answered the phone. “This isn’t when you usually call.”

“I know, Mama, but we have a game Sunday, so I won’t be able to make our usual time.”

“That’s all right. So how are your classes? How’s that team of yours doing?”

“I’m good, Mama. Classes are busy, and I met with Professor Atley about my thesis,” Bitty said. “She liked the community cookbook idea, but she wants me to go deeper into it. And the team’s -- well, okay, I guess. They seemed a little discombobulated at practice today. I’m not quite sure how to get them all on the same page.”

“I’m sure you’ll figure it out,” Suzanne said. “Is that what’s bothering you?”

“Yes,” Bitty said. “No. Not really. Mama, has it been bad for you since the Stanley Cup?”

“Bad for me?” Suzanne asked. “How do you mean?”

“I mean, have people been mean to you?” Bitty said. “About me? I know how people can get, and that was my one regret after -- that I didn’t think how it would affect you, with everyone in Madison knowing and you and Aunt Judy not even having time to do damage control with your women’s club, or Coach with the teachers at school.”

Suzanne was quiet for a moment, and then she said, “You, Dicky, are my son, and my best friend and I will always love you all the way to the moon and back. You are gay, and you had a boyfriend for a year without telling me -- a boyfriend, mind you, that came to visit and shared your room -- and what you regret is that other people found out the same time I did?”

“I did kind of make a spectacle of myself,” Bitty said. “I wanted to talk to you before, but I was scared.”

“I know, Dicky, and I told you before that I’m sorry about that,” Suzanne. “We should have made sure that you knew you could tell us anything.”

“I was afraid you wouldn’t understand,” Bitty said. 

“Well, I’m not sure that I really do,” Suzanne said, “But I want to. I thought you’d grow up and move down the street or to the next town and raise your babies and I’d be their grandma. And now I’m pretty sure that you’re not ever going to come back here to live, and I don’t know if you’ll have kids, and it’s a lot to get used to. But I promise you I’m trying.”

“I appreciate that, Mama, I really do,” Bitty said. “Because I miss you. I feel like it hasn’t been the same since last summer. I’m sorry if what I did caused a problem between us.”

“Like I said, Dicky, it takes a lot of getting used to,” Suzanne said. “And it might have been easier if you would have said to me, at some point, ‘Mama, Jack’s my boyfriend.’ But I’m sorry, too, if I’ve been distant. I’ve told you before, and I’ll say it again, Jack is a lovely young man, but so are you, and he’s lucky to have you.”

““Would it be bad if I did some interviews? Just a couple? Hall and Murray seem to think I should, but I don’t want people to be giving you a hard time.”

“Seems to me that you need to decide what you want,” Suzanne said. “Not ask me to make that decision for you.” “I made my bed so I might as well lie in it?” Bitty said.

“Oh, my little Dicky bird, that’s not what I mean at all,” Suzanne said. “I just meant that you have to decide what’s right for you. That’s not something I can tell you.”

“Jack thinks I should see a therapist,” Bitty blurted.

He could forgive Suzanne’s confused silence. That wasn’t what he meant to say. But since he said it, he pressed on.

“Now don’t go worrying about me,” he said. “There’s nothing really wrong with me. But Lardo called Jack after Ford called her, just because I got a little snippy with the boys after they ruined a pie. But really, I know I make it look easy to make a pie, but they could be a little careful not to spill beer on it.”

“There really are some things you shouldn’t tell your mother,” Suzanne said. 

“It was just a bad day,” Bitty went on. “I couldn’t make what I wanted for lunch, and I had to walk to the store, and Dex and Nursey were fighting again, and maybe I made things worse, and then the thing with the pie. And Jack was worried that maybe I’m overwhelmed with hockey and school and everything else.”

“Do you feel like it’s too much?” Suzanne asked.

“It’s all things I wanted,” Bitty said.

Suzanne just waited.

“No,” Bitty said. “Yes. Sometimes. But all I have to do is buckle down and get through it. Going to a counselor or someone would just be one more thing I have to do.”

“Does Jack think it would help?”

“I’m sure he does,” Bitty said. “And it’s complicated, because he’s been in therapy since he was a teenager, and I don’t want him to think I think any less of him for that. But my problems aren’t that big. Lord, what would Coach say if he found out I was in therapy?” “Your father might surprise you,” Suzanne said. “You know who Ricky Tomlin is?”

“His quarterback this year?”

“Yes, the one who has them 6-0,” Suzanne said. “He sees a sports psychologist. I have to admit, your daddy didn’t really get it when his parents told Coach about it, but I think he’s a believer now.”

“Mama, I’m not going to see a counselor and have our team go on a 6-0 run,” Bitty said.

“You never know,” Suzanne said, and Bitty could hear the smile in her voice. “Like I said before, sugar, this is something you have to decide for yourself. But don’t think your daddy and I would think less of you.”

When she disconnected the call, Bitty only had a few minutes before his scheduled Skype call with Jack.

He spent the time trying to come up with a good argument against therapy. He knew that all his reasons boiled down to fear: fear that people would think there was something wrong with him, fear that his therapist would find out there really was something wrong with him, fear that if he couldn’t handle his life on his own, then Jack would decide he wasn’t worth the effort.

He also knew that was ridiculous.

When Jack called, he looked concerned when he said, “How’re you doing, bud? Better day today?”

“Better,” Bitty said. “Practice wasn’t great. And I missed class this morning because I lost track of time figure skating.”

“Be careful not to do too much, Bitty,” Jack said. “How many pies?”

“It was team dinner, Jack,” Bitty said. 

“How many?”

“Three.”

Jack just looked at him through the screen.

“I know,” Bitty said. “I talked to my mama, too.”

“How was that?” Jack asked. “Still weird?”

“A little, but it’s getting better,” Bitty asked. “We talked about what you said yesterday -- that maybe I should see a therapist? That was the biggest surprise -- I think she thought it might be a good ideal. Apparently because Ricky Tomlin has a sports psychologist.”

“Who?” Jack asked. “Never mind. I can get some names if you want from Linda.”

“Maybe,” Bitty said. “Let me start with the counseling center. I can go tomorrow after class. I’ll have time before to make muffins to take with.”

“Bitty --”

“Kidding,” Bitty said. “I was kidding.”

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi on [Tumblr!](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/justlookfrightened)


End file.
